


Worship

by felix_atticus



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Breathplay, Light BDSM, M/M, Master/Slave, No redeeming qualities whatsoever, PWP, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/felix_atticus
Summary: I hope you enjoy, xJuniperx. You're the reader every writer dreams of, and this seems like a ridiculous gift for so momentous a birthday. But since it'll make you happy, have some smut.(And know that I started the second story today, so please consider that the other part of the present.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy, xJuniperx. You're the reader every writer dreams of, and this seems like a ridiculous gift for so momentous a birthday. But since it'll make you happy, have some smut.  
> (And know that I started the second story today, so please consider that the other part of the present.)

It’s been thirty five minutes but I don’t move.

                I won’t move. He will be here soon. I will stay where I am and I will wait and I will show that I’m good. I will show him how good I can be.

                He won’t like it if I wait too long. I have waited too long already. I’ve waited five whole minutes longer than I was supposed to. I sit here on the kitchen floor on my knees with my hands on my thighs and I wait for him.

                It’s starting to get dark outside. I look out the window. We are seven storeys off the ground. I’ve never lived anywhere that was any higher than two. It scared me at first but I loved it too.

                I think that’s how I feel about most things most of the time now.

                I wipe my hands on my pants. My hands are skinny like the rest of me and they look like they shouldn’t sweat but they do. I always made my hands into fists so people wouldn’t see but he made me open them for him. The first time he ran his thumb across my palm I wanted to die from shame. I know that I look weak. I didn’t want him to know that I’m weaker than I look. Except he stroked his thumb across my palm and said in that voice, that voice of his, “What do you have to be nervous about?” And I wanted to die but in a different way.

                My knees don’t hurt yet. I’m used to this. The floor is hard but it’s not like the house I grew up in. I spent hours on my knees there and it was a different kind of hard. It felt like stone compared to this. The difference is that I don’t have to be on my knees in the kitchen.

                The difference is that I want to be.

                The clock is ticking. I look up at it and my hair falls across from my eyes. I quickly push it away. I’m still not used to my hair like this. She always cut it the same way for as long as I can remember. He says I can have my hair however I want. So I let it grow. I think I will let it grow and grow and grow until he tells me to stop and if he doesn’t I’ll let it grow until I have to be careful not to trip over it. That’s a stupid thought but he doesn’t mind if I have thoughts like that. So I won’t feel bad.

                Thirty seven minutes. My stomach starts turning even more. It gets bad when it gets close to 5:30. When it’s 5:27 or 5:28 or 5:29 I start to think I’ll cry but when it’s past 5:30 it becomes a different kind of sick and it’s not like a stabbing in my spine. It’s a sick in my stomach that travels down.

                It’s 5:37 and he’s not home and I’m not supposed to be sitting on the floor anymore.

                He finishes work at 5:00 and he is prompt. That is the word he uses. He knows so many words that are small but that are smarter than most of the words I know. He finishes work at 5:00 and he puts his things in his case and he says goodnight to his secretary and then he disappears from there and he reappears here and it’s usually 5:06. Four out of the five days he is at work he shows up with a crack that still startles me just inside the apartment. Like he slammed the door except sharper. I always jump and then I relax. I relax like I don’t have a spine because he’s home.

                Then there are the days when he doesn’t appear at 5:06. Sometimes other people are in his office and he can’t leave until they finish their conversation. Sometimes he is in someone else’s office and he can’t leave until they finish their conversation. Sometimes he is out in the city doing things that he will tell only me about and he can’t leave until his work is finished.

                And those days I sit here on the kitchen floor on my knees and I wait and I wait and I wait. But I’m not supposed to wait longer than 5:30. At 5:30 I am supposed to get up and make myself dinner and eat alone.

                I don’t want to eat alone. I want to sit on my side of the table which is with my back to the window and I want him to sit at his side of the table which is with his back to the wall. I want him at the head of the table and I want to feel how his foot presses against mine. I want to hear him say that I made dinner well. I want him to be pleased.

                I do not want to sit at the table by myself. I would rather sit here on the floor and wait because sitting here and waiting means he will be home soon. Sitting at the table means giving up on him being here with me. I hate sitting at the table by myself. It means I don’t know when he will be here.

                5:39. It’s only nine minutes. He will be here any second. He comes home as soon as he can. He has never said that but I believe it. I believe it because I believe in him. He will be here soon.

                It won’t be like the night where he didn’t come home and I was still sitting here when it was light. He raised his voice, told me I couldn’t do that, that I hadn’t listened to him, and I put my face in my hands and cried so hard that it didn’t make any sound. He sat down on the floor with me and pulled me into his lap and I was ashamed that he had to do that for me. I am supposed to sit on the floor. He is not supposed to sit on the floor. When he whispered in my ear and told me that I had to take care of myself when he wasn’t here it was terrible. It was terrible because I want him to take care of me. Sometimes I can’t do what he wants because he tells me to take care of myself and that’s not what I want. I want to take care of him and I want him to take care of me.

                He will come home soon. Sometimes if it’s a few minutes past 5:30 he will sigh and I will be embarrassed but then he’ll say, “Get up, then,” and he’ll give me his hand and help me to my feet and he won’t be upset with me.

                If it’s just a few minutes. It’s 5:40.

                I should get up. I should do as I’m told and make myself dinner and eat it and then go to the chair and sit in it and read until he gets home. If he isn’t home by 10 I should change and get into bed and I should go to sleep. That is what he wants me to do.

                Except I’m not going to. I want to do what he tells me to but I want him here. If I sit here it means he will be home soon.

                I sit here because it’s what _I_ want to do.

                The clock ticks over to 5:41 and I sit on the kitchen floor on my knees and I wait for him.

 

I wake up gasping.

                What is happening? I am breathing hard and my legs hurt and it’s dark and I don’t know what’s happening—

                Yes I do.

                I fell asleep. I fell asleep sitting on the kitchen floor and now it’s night time. It’s so dark that I can’t see the clock but I know that it’s late. I remember sitting here until it was dark like this and I have no idea what time it is.

                But the crack that always happens when he appears woke me up. He’s _here_. He’s here and I am sitting here in the kitchen like I’m not supposed to be and I fill with a confusing mix of relief and dread.

                I flinch as he turns on the light in the other room. It’s the only light in the house right now. He’ll know that I didn’t do as I was told.

                My whole body feels tight because nothing is happening. It’s silent. It stretches out so long that I start to count the seconds. One. Two. Three.

                His shoes on the hard floor. I close my eyes. I am afraid but I love how his shoes sound on the floor. They make a sharp noise. They click. He never tries to pretend he’s not there. I shuffle and my shoes make little sounds like whispers if they make any sound at all. He walks straight and sure and he doesn’t care who hears that he’s coming.

                The light turns on in the kitchen and I squeeze my eyes even tighter shut. I don’t want him to do it. I don’t. Please don’t do it.

                He sighs.

                I die a little.

                One step two steps three steps and he’s standing right behind me. I can feel him there. I can always feel when he’s there. It’s an electrical thing that I can’t stand and that I want to push myself through.

                “Credence,” he says in that voice of his.

                It’s low as a purr from a cat and it’s heavy too and I would do anything he asked of me, _anything_ , when he uses that voice. I shiver. My legs hurt and I’m braced for his disappointment except I’m not because there is nothing worse than his disappointment.

                “Credence,” he says, “have you been sitting there since 5?”

                I shake my head. It’s automatic. I don’t want him to be disappointed in me.

                My breath catches when his hand slips under my jaw. Some of his fingers are on the front of my throat and his thumb is behind my ear. “Credence. Did you eat?”

                “Yes,” I whisper.

                He leans down and his fingers flex against my throat. “Are you lying to me?”

                His fingers are solid and stronger than mine. He is stronger than me in every way. “No.”

                I whimper when he tilts my head back with just a little twitch of the fingers. His voice dips even lower and I feel it everywhere that I can feel. “Are—you lying to me?” he repeats.

                Trembling, I whisper, “Yes.”

                He lets me go and I hate it. I would rather have his hand around my throat than have him not touch me at all.

He walks past me with his shoes clicking on the ground. “Sit.” He is going to do something. I am going to be punished somehow only I don’t know how. It’s always in a way I don’t expect except for his disappointment. I melt off my knees and put a hand to sit flat on the ground except he says, “At the table.”

                No. I misbehaved. I didn’t do what he said. I’m supposed to be punished. I want to be punished. He’s going to the cupboards and opening them and I feel my stomach drop. He’s not going to—

                “Now, Credence.”

                I do as I’m told. I get up. It takes a second and I sort of shake on my legs. My knees hurt. That’s okay. I’ve hurt worse than this before. I limp to the table and around to my side. I sit down in my chair. My face is turning red.

                He is. He’s going to do it. He is lighting the burner on the stove, head tilted. He does everything with precision and he’s watching to make sure it’s done correctly. Even this small thing.

                I am miserable. I say, “I can do that—“

                “Clearly you can’t, or you would have already.” He turns and leaves the kitchen while shrugging out of his over things.

                Stupid. I am so stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

                “Get that look off your face,” he says. I was so busy hating myself that I didn’t hear him come back. He takes the cufflinks out of his sleeves and carefully rolls them up.

                This is my punishment. I have to watch him do what I was supposed to do. I have to see how well he takes care of me because I can’t take care of myself. Won’t take care of myself. He tells me there’s a difference but I’m still trying to figure out what it is. I’m not very smart. Not like he is. He knows everything. I don’t know much of anything at all.

                He opens the icebox, looking inside. “Did you have lunch?”

                “Yes,” I whisper, hanging my head.

                “Are you sure?”

                “Yes.” I did. I did that much.

                He makes a sound from the back of his throat. He takes out a pot of leftover soup, lifting the lid. I had some for lunch, but not a lot. He says I can have as much as I want but I don’t know how to do that. It’s a silly thing to not know how to do but I have a lot of things like that.

                He puts the pot on the burner then he finds a spoon to stir it with. If he had been here at 5:06 I would have made dinner for both of us. There was pasta that I was supposed to make. He taught me how to make that. He has taught me to make a lot of different kinds of things.

                He pulls his watch from his vest and checks it against the clock. Most days he does that. I don’t know why. I expect it of him though. His watch is silver and finer than anything I have ever owned or would want to own.

                Whatever he sees satisfies him and he slips it back in place. He is in black and white clothes like usual. His white shirts are all crisp and his black vests and pants and ties are always as dark as when he first got them. They don’t fade like my clothes used to. Everything about him is careful like his clothes. Everything is attended to.

                He takes a bowl out of the cupboard. He isn’t saying anything. Usually when he comes home he says at least a few things. Asks me what I did today even though what I do is almost always the exact same as the day before and the day before that. It makes me nervous when he comes home and doesn’t talk.

                This is my punishment too.

                I wipe my hands on my pants and he says, “Hands on the table. Where I can see them.”

                I grimace and I do as I’m told. The table is a dark brown and it shines and if I put my hands on it then there will be handprints. I will clean it as soon as I can but he will see. Worse—he’ll pull the pocket square from his vest and wipe the mark away.

                I watch him without looking above his shoulders. I have a hard time looking him in the eyes. I have a hard time looking anyone in the eyes. Right now I think that if I tried to look at his face I would disappear with embarrassment. Or explode. I control myself for him but I am scared that one day I won’t and I will tear into a million pieces. I’m scared of that. Not because of what would happen to me but because of him. What if I hurt _him_?

                I tell myself that’s not possible. He is stronger than me. There’s no way I could hurt him. That’s not how this works.

                Except I’m afraid.

                I’m looking at his legs and that’s how I realize he’s still in his shoes. I’ve been listening to them but I forgot. I forgot because I’m stupid.

                “Your shoes,” I say.

                He doesn’t look up from the pot. “Did you clean the floor today?”

                “Yes.” I was disobedient about one thing but I did everything else. I need him to know that.

                “So you’re worried about me marking your clean floors.”

                I am horrified. “ _No_ ,” I’m quick to say. “No sir—“

                “Then my shoes are fine.”

                I’m supposed to take off his shoes. He comes through the door and he makes sure that I’m where I’m supposed to be between 5:00 and 5:30 and he gives me his hand and lifts me to my feet and takes me to the other room. I will go back down on my knees and I will unlace his beautiful shining shoes. He will let me do that. I love to do that. Sometimes he will run his fingers over my hair when I do that and if I’m brave enough to look up at him he’ll smile.

                But I’m disobedient. I’m disobedient so he is still in his shoes and he’s making _me_ dinner. Useless me who can’t do what he’s told.

                The kitchen starts to smell like food and it makes me feel worse. I want him to take care of me. I crave it. What I don’t want is for him to come home after work and have to do what I couldn’t. What time is it?

                Oh God. Oh God it’s 9:20. He had to stay at work four extra hours and when he came home he has to look after stupid me.

                “What did I tell you about that look on your face?” he says quietly.

                I bite into my lip. I try to look different. When I hate myself my face starts to crumple and my whole body hunches as I try to make myself as small as possible. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it when I hate myself. I wish I could explain to him that I can’t help it.

                He knows though. He always knows everything.

                I sit with my hands on the table that are leaving sweat stains and I don’t watch when he pours soup into the bowl. It smells good. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve most of what he gives me and I still don’t understand why he chose me. Why me? I’m no one. I don’t deserve these things and I don’t deserve him. But I’m here.

                He turns away from the stove with the bowl of soup and I’m scared that he’s just going to put it in front of me and leave me here. Leave me alone to eat at the table like I was supposed to and didn’t.

                He bends over and sets the bowl on the ground. Then he looks at me from under his brows.

                I drop my gaze while my cheeks turn bright red. Oh.

                As he straightens he snaps his fingers and points at the bowl. I cringe and I obey. I get up. I see my handprints on my table but he’ll say my name in that tone of voice that makes me want to die if I hesitate.

                I get down on my knees in front of the bowl as he says, “If you want to sit down there then you’ll eat down there.”

                There’s just a bowl on the ground. Just a bowl on the ground and nothing else. Like a dish left out for a dog. I will put my head down and lap it up. It’s humiliating. I am also relieved. I understand punishment like this. It feels normal. I wouldn’t be punished if he didn’t want me to do better. If he didn’t care.

                I put my hands on the ground on either side of the bowl and I lean down.

                A spoon is held in front of my face.

                After a moment I take it. My hand is shaking a little. He lets go and says, “You can join me when you’re done.”

                I listen to his shoes on the ground as they walk away from me. I do not deserve this. I do not deserve him.

 

I come around the corner less than ten minutes later. I ate too fast but my mouth wasn’t burned. He knew I would want to be with him as soon as possible. He made sure the soup wasn’t too hot. I ate and did the dishes and dried them and put them away.

                He is in his chair under the lamp. The chair is big and grey. The fabric is smooth and it smells like him. During the day I sit there the most. I think I sit there more than he does but it will always be his chair and it never smells like me. The lampshade is dark grey but the light from it is warm.

                There is a book in his lap. He doesn’t look up at me. He just turns the page and rubs his head lightly against the back of the chair.

                I hesitate before I cross the room. When he looks up my eyes flicker from his face to the ground. To his shoes.

                “May I?” I whisper.

                His eyes are on me and now all I can do is look down. I’m supposed to be embarrassed that I like to do this for him. I should be embarrassed for all the things I like to do for him. And I am. A little. Except I _want_ to do these things. Only for him.

                He sits back and stretches his legs out.

                I exhale with relief. I sit down on the ground. There is carpet in here and things are much softer. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here now but I’m still unused to it. Where I come from the floors were never ever soft.

                His laces are always double knotted and they are always tight. So tight that he has trouble getting them undone for himself. But my fingers are skinny and my nails point a bit. I bite them. I shouldn’t but it helps to undo his shoes so I don’t listen when he tells me I should stop. If he said it seriously I might listen but when he says it he sounds a bit like he’s teasing.

                He rests his head against the side of the chair and watches me. I don’t have to look up to know he’s doing it. I feel his eyes on me. He has big dark eyes that never blink much. Like he needs to see everything. Like he’s always watching. I’m always blinking. I watched myself in the mirror once to see if I could not blink the way he does and I just looked like a surprised pigeon. He looks at me and it’s like he’s seeing everything in me. There’s no part of me that I can hide from him.

                I unfasten the knots and I take my time. I loosen the laces. He has been in these shoes for thirteen hours. These beautiful shoes that I make sure are shining when he leaves every morning. No one knows what makes these shoes shine the way they do. Sometimes people compliment him on them. He tells me whenever someone compliments how neat and clean his clothes are. How well put together he is. I know that he would look that way even if I wasn’t here but he makes it sound as though it’s all my doing and it makes me so proud.

                I grasp the back of his ankle and pull off the right shoe and then the left. I take them to the front door. I put them next to the other two pairs he owns. My pair is behind them. They are clean—he makes sure I keep them clean—but I have little reason to wear them. I don’t leave here much. Only when he tells me to.

                As I walk back he says, “What do you—“

                But before he can finish I’ve sat down on the ground at his side and put my head on his knee. I close my eyes. That he _asked_. That he still asked me after I disobeyed.

                When he speaks I hear affection in his voice. “All right.”

                I hear the sound of fingers moving over a page as he finds his place. Then fingers sink into my hair. I bite into my bottom lip so that I don’t make a sound. It is so easy for him to make me react. I want to show him that I can control myself. I can control myself for him. I can show him that I deserve him even if I don’t.

                He strokes my hair and I am somewhere between person and pet and I am a kind of soft happy that can’t be put into words.

 

Sometimes I count minutes. Sometimes I count seconds. When I am with him I don’t. I am here with him and time doesn’t matter.

                So I don’t know how much time has passed when he closes his book. He leans away from me to set the book on the little table under the lamp and I have to lift my head. I don’t like that. When he is here I want to be touching him every single second but I know that’s silly.

                Then he reaches down and murmurs, “Come up here.”

                There is a surge in my chest. I let out a breath, my eyelids fluttering. I don’t stand all the way up. I just push myself up far enough so that I can climb onto his lap. He helps me and positions me. I curl my legs up and I lay across his chest.

                I’m too big to sit on anyone’s lap. I’m too old. If anyone else saw I can’t imagine what I would do. But he is the only one to ever let me sit on their lap. I have no memories of anyone else ever letting me do this. I have no other memories of anyone stroking my hair the way he does.

                I rest my head just below his shoulder and press my ear against his chest. His heart is on the other side but I can still hear things working inside him. He cups my face in one hand and runs his other hand slowly up and down my back.

                “Did you do everything else you were supposed to today?”

                “Yes.”

                “Tell me what you did today.”

                The side of his thumb brushes over my cheekbone. I want to drop further and further down until there is no me. Until there’s just the thought of me living inside him.

                “I read.”

                “Did you finish?”

                “No,” I say. I am not a fast reader. “I’m sorry.”

                “You don’t have to be sorry. Did you get to the end of the chapter from yesterday?”

                “Yes.”

                “Good.”

                Good. He says that I’m good. “I had lunch,” I whisper. “I did laundry. I cleaned the floors. I—went out on the fire escape. I counted until a hundred. I came back inside.”

                “A hundred isn’t very long.”

                “I don’t want to go outside—“

                “All right,” he soothes. His fingers caress the back of my neck and I push my face further into his hand. “I don’t work tomorrow. We’ll go out together.”

                That’s better. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to be where other people are but if he’s with me it’s better. I will be frightened but I will feel safe if I’m with him.

                “What did you do after the fire escape?”

                I swallow. “I waited.”

                I feel his breath on the back of my neck and I can’t tell if it’s a sigh or if he’s just breathing. “That’s a long time to wait.”

                “Yes.”

                “Why did you wait?”

                “Because I missed you.”

                His fingers all curl in a little and he holds me a bit closer. “I missed you too.”

                A million pieces. That is what I’ll be someday if he keeps telling me things like that. I will come apart and nothing will ever put me together again. Not even him. I burrow against him and I am shameless when I do it.

                Not even biting my lip helps when he kisses the top of my head. I make a sound that isn’t the kind of sound a person should make. He murmurs against my hair, “Do you like that?”

                I nod and it’s hard to breathe. “Yes Daddy.”

                He strokes my side. “Good boy.” He starts to move me around and I do what he wants. He moves me until I’m sitting back against his chest and he can wrap his arms around me. I let my head fall back on his shoulder and he rubs his jaw against the side of my face. He shaves every morning before he leaves for work but when he comes back to me it’s prickly. Sometimes it leaves marks on me and most times I rub against it as hard as I dare so that I will see the scratches when he’s gone.

                His one arm is around me. His other hand lies flat on my chest and rubs down my stomach and back up again. He is the only one to touch me like this. He is the only one to touch me like I am worthy of being touched.

                He makes me feel like I am.

                “I want to take you to bed tonight,” he says.

                I shudder. We sleep in the same bed every night but that isn’t what he means.

                His lips graze over the outside of my ear. “Would you like that?” he whispers.

                I nod. “Yes Daddy.”

                He kisses my forehead and I don’t know how I hold myself together. “Good boy.”

                Yes. I will be his good good boy.

 

I want to undo his buttons and take things off him but he says to me, “Sit.” I’m not happy about it but I know how to listen. When he is gone sometimes I don’t do what he tells me. Not because I don’t want to but because I can’t seem to help myself. But when he’s here I always do exactly as he says. One syllable comes out of his mouth and I sit on the side of the bed. Even though I don’t want to.

                It is hard choosing between wanting to touch him and wanting to do as I’m told. If I wait I’ll be allowed to touch him. And he’ll touch me.

                I watch as he undoes the buttons of his vest with one hand. As he crosses the room he takes the watch off and sets it on top of the dresser. There is a little dish there that he sets it in each night. His cufflinks go there too and so will the pin he puts through his tie.

                He gets to the bottom button of his vest and he looks at my hands. They’ve made fists on my thighs. He smiles crookedly at that. “Don’t like this, do you,” he murmurs.

                I shake my head. “No sir.”

                He raises one dark eyebrow at me. “Sir, is it?”

                I exhale and correct myself. “Daddy.”

                It is not the name he asked me to call him. When I came here—I don’t even know how long ago now—he told me to call him Master. When he told me that I sank to my knees because I was so grateful. He is my master. I am his servant. I am his slave. I am whatever he wants me to be and I will do whatever he tells me. Because he is my master and I was glad to call him that. For it to be said.

                Only after a while I started to have this other name for him in my head. It came to me one night when I had him in my hand in the dark and he was kissing me and making these big gasping breaths and he was telling me that I was a good boy, such a good boy. I was nodding and I felt so _free_. I was free because he told me I was and he told me I was good and I trusted him more than I had ever trusted anyone ever. And I opened my mouth to tell him that. Except what started to come out of my mouth wasn’t that. It was another name. Even with what a freak I am this was too much. It was too much and I almost said it to him. I almost told him what a freak I was.

                I had to hide in the bathroom for a while after that. He asked me what was wrong but I said nothing. I knew he could tell I was lying but he just looked at me with those unblinking black eyes and I was able to keep the name a secret.

                But secrets are awful things. They grow inside like cancer. Every time I saw him I wanted to say the word. I wanted to call him that name. The name in my head. It was a shameful horrible thing. I thought that if I told him he would finally understand that I shouldn’t be here. That I didn’t deserve him because there’s something wrong with me.

                He started to punish me. I would have him in my mouth and he would pull me back by the hair and say, “Tell me.” I wouldn’t so he made me stay on the other side of the room while he finished by himself. I’d be sitting on the fire escape and he would close the window behind me. He would sit on the other side of the glass and say, “Tell me.” I would shake my head and be sick to my stomach for disobeying him and he would watch me for a while before letting me in. He even made me sit down at the table and look him in the eyes and he asked in a voice so soft that it hurt, “Tell me.” But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

                Finally he made me take off all my clothes and lie across his lap. I was terrified and hard and vibrating with nervousness and want for him. He rubbed his hand over my backside and told me in that voice, “We’re not going to stop until you tell me.”

                He doesn’t hit. Not like I’m used to being hit. He never draws blood and he never leaves scars and he asks first if he can. If I say _stop_ then he stops. I never tell him to stop.

                He spanked me until I was a mess. More of a mess than I usually am. I was wriggling like a worm, trying to rub against his leg but he kept propping me back up. Every time his hand struck my skin I let out a sound like a sob only I wasn’t crying at first. It was the first time we did anything like that and I wanted him to. God I wanted him to so bad.

                And he kept saying, “Tell me, Credence. Tell me.” I was shaking my head and trying to hold on. Trying not to be a disaster. Except I am a disaster. I was telling him _no_ every time he told me to tell him and I wanted him to stop but I wanted him to hit me harder because there’s something wrong with me and I deserve to be hit. He kept spanking me until I was crying because it was starting to hurt.

                He kept spanking me until I gasped, “Please Daddy,” and he didn’t hit me again. I put my face in my hands and I cried until I thought there couldn’t be any water left inside me. He pulled me up into a little ball and rocked me while I embarrassed myself and sobbed until I ached.

                He just said, “That’s my good boy,” and it was more than I could stand.

                Now I call him nothing else except for when I’m misbehaving. Willful, she used to call it. I never really understood what that meant. He called me that once and I asked him not to and he never has again. Misbehaving is all right. Disobeying is all right. Those are words that don’t hurt more than they should.

                He hangs up his vest then takes the pin from his tie and puts it in the little dish. He glances at me while he loosens his tie and I look down. I’m biting into my lips. I wonder what he’ll want tonight. We do things that I didn’t even know existed until I met him.

                I didn’t know it would feel good to be tied to the bed. I didn’t know it would feel good to have a man’s tongue inside me. I didn’t know it would feel good to be pinned down and covered and claimed. I didn’t understand until him that I wanted to be owned. I want to be whatever he wants me to be.

                A strand of hair falls forward when he takes off his shirt. He smooths it back with one hand. I love his hair. It is dark on top and silver on the sides. Sometimes when he sleeps I’ll let my fingertips pass over those short silver hairs and I think about how perfect he is. He lays his shirt in the empty laundry basket before turning back to me. He’s only wearing his black pants and a white undershirt that lets me see some of the dark and silver hairs on his chest.

                He crooks a finger and beckons me to my feet. I get up.

                He steps forward and takes my face in his strong hands and kisses me.

                It’s like every time he kisses me. I have a moment of disbelief where I try to figure out why he would do that. I don’t know why anyone would want to kiss me. Then a thing I can’t control takes over and I’m grabbing onto whatever part of him I can. This time I grab onto his shoulders while I push myself taller so I can be as close to him as I want.

                Sometimes I’m scared I'll eat him whole.

                His mouth is like the rest of him. Certain of what it wants. He doesn’t hesitate. He isn’t out of control like I usually am. I know he wants me but I know that if he wants to stop he will. I never want to stop.

                His tongue slips along my lower lip and I open my mouth for him. I’m trying to get my arms around his neck. If I do that I’ll be able to push myself closer. He wraps an arm around my waist and the other pushes between us. He starts unbuttoning my shirt from the top.             

                My master. My everything. He takes such good care of me and I will never know why.

                I don’t wear an undershirt so all he has to do is pull open my shirt and push it off me and he can touch my bare skin. I whine when he spreads his hands over my back. He grips me and squeezes me where there’s not much more than skin and bones and I love it.

                He sucks my lower lip into his mouth before pulling back from me. I’m dizzy. I always get dizzy when he does this to me.

                When he speaks it almost sounds like a growl. “Do you know what I want?”

                “Anything,” I babble, “anything you want, I’ll do anything—“

                He cuts me off with a look. He unfastens my belt and says, “I want you to come for me.”

                I flinch.

                “Daddy,” I protest.

                I’ll do anything for him. Anything. If he wants to tie my hands behind my back and bend me over the kitchen table. If he wants to twist my nipples until I’m wailing. If he wants to take me up to the roof and have me suck him when it’s early morning and people can see. I’ll do it. I’ll do all of it.

                But I don’t want to do _that_.

                He unbuttons my pants with little more than a flick of the thumb. He pushes his forehead against mine. It forces me to look into his eyes. “Don’t you want to make me happy?”

                “I can make you happy—“

                He clicks in his cheek and he pushes his hands down into my pants—oh God. Oh God I can’t help myself. I want him. I want to do whatever he wants. He squeezes me and my fingers dig into his skin. “I told you what I want. Are you going to listen to me?”

                It’s impossible to think when he’s holding me like this. When he’s touching me like this. It’s not supposed to be him making me happy. I’m supposed to make him happy.

                “Daddy,” I plead.

                He’s stroking me now and it’s hard to stay on my feet. “Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

                There’s nothing else I can do. I nod. I’m a little frantic. I’ll do whatever he wants.

                He takes his hand away and I groan. He nods to the bed and says, “Take everything off and lie down.”     

                I do as I’m told. I don’t even fold my things. I just leave them lying on the ground and I get on the bed. I’m exposed to him. I push my hair out of my eyes. My heart is beating too quickly.

                I watch as he finishes undressing. He’s going so slow. He is torturing me. I don’t mind if he spanks me. I don’t care if I can’t walk straight the day after he has me. This—this is torture. He knows it. He knows how badly I want it.

                How badly I want him.

                He has the most beautiful body. He has a body like a man should. Not like mine. I am skinny and pale and everything about me seems sharp and flat. I am not a boy anymore but I look like one. He looks like a man. He has muscles in all the right places. I can follow the hair on his chest all the way down to where it thins in a line down into his pants and then when it gets thick again.

                My master with his perfect body in black and grey.

                He drops his clothes on the floor on top of mine and that tells me that he wants me more than the part of him that’s hard. He stands beside the bed and runs a hand up the inside of my leg. I spread my legs wider for him. I want him to touch more of me. I want him to be down here so that I can touch him.

                He smiles a little at how obvious I am. Just come down here with me. Lie on top of me. Be in me. Be a part of me—the best part of me—

                He takes the jar out of the bedside table and sets it beside me before climbing onto the bed between my knees. He puts his hands to the insides of my thighs and pushes them apart. I open for him. This is a shameful thing we’re doing but I’m only ashamed for myself. I’m ashamed I want this so badly. He can want whatever he wants. That’s how this works.

                I have my arms over my head. I’m waiting for him to tell me what to do with them.

                He slips a hand under my calf. He moves his hand until it’s hooked under my knee and then he pushes back. I try to take long breaths. Sometimes I panic and I don’t breathe like I’m supposed to. He says that’s dangerous. I don’t care but he does. He pushes until my thigh is almost flat against my body and I’m wincing at the strain.

                “Should I have you like this?” he asks. He pinches the back of my knee in his hand and I shiver. “It would hurt. You would like that, wouldn’t you.”

                Yes.

                He reaches to the top of my other leg and strokes where it starts to get more and more sensitive. “Or if I had both your legs over my shoulders. That would be good for me. Fast. And I like how degraded you look when I do that.”

                I make a noise.

                He pops the lid off the jar and slicks his fingers up. I blush just like I always do. I don’t know how long he’ll keep me for or how long we’ll do this but I don’t think I will ever stop blushing when he’s about to touch inside me.

                He’s rubbing his fingers together. “But that’s not what I said I wanted, was it. I said I wanted you to come.”

                “I’ll do whatever you want—“

                I almost squeak when he reaches down and strokes his fingers over where I open for him. “Shh,” he says. Breathe. I have to breathe. “Tell me what I want.”

                It’s so sensitive. It’s so sensitive down there where no one is supposed to touch ever and—oh God—

                “You want me to come,” I push out.

                The sides of his mouth turn upwards slightly. “Yes. Good boy.” And he slips a finger inside me.

                I close my eyes.

                It’s not supposed to be like this. I get pleasure because he gets pleasure. He is the master and I am his. He is so good. He is so good to me. Worthless me.

                I squirm on his finger and then on the next. “Touch me,” he says and so I do. He’s let my leg go and I let it down so that it’s easier to reach him. I touch his hair. I touch his shoulders. I touch his face. He pushes deeper inside me and he takes my fingers into his mouth. He bites my fingers and swirls his tongue around them and my eyes roll back.

                “Harder,” I whisper. “Daddy, please, harder.”

                “Harder or more?”

                “Either—both—please—“

                It’s too soon but he pushes a third finger inside me and I jam the heel of my palm into his shoulder. Too much. Too much inside me but it’s _him_ and it’s where I want him. This is the closest I can come to disappearing. I am nothing but a place for him to be. I want that.

                “That’s my brave boy. Hungry boy.”

                He pushes his fingers in and out of me and it hurts and it’s perfect. I ride his fingers and my hands are digging into his shoulders—they’re going to leave bruises—my hands aren’t strong enough but I think they’ll leave bruises—

                I’m empty.

                I look down. I’m shaking. He’s stroking his slick fingers over himself. Faster. I want him to be faster.

                He says, “Should I go slower? Can you handle this?”

                He’s teasing me. He is the only one who teases me.

                “Everything,” I say. “I want everything.”

                “Everything. Listen to you. Listen—“ He hooks an arm under my leg, lifting me off the bed a few inches, spreading me. “To how _greedy_ you are.” He takes himself in his hand and fixes those dark eyes on me. “Are you greedy?”

                “Yes,” I breathe.

                “You’re greedy for this?”

                “Yes, Daddy.”

                “Let me hear you say it.”

                “I’m greedy for this, Daddy. I’m greedy for you. Please—“

                He rams inside me. He doesn’t wait or hesitate. He just does it.

                I have to put my hands over my mouth. I put my hands over my mouth so that I don’t scream. People will hear if I scream. I don’t know what he would think of me if I screamed.

                He’s touching me. He’s rubbing the last of the slickness off his fingers and around my hardness. I jerk when he does that. He touches me there and I always feel like I’m being whipped but not in the bad way. It almost hurts but in the nice way.

                He prompts me to wrap my legs around him so I do. I am full with him and when he lies on top of me I want to melt into this bed. I want to be nothing and before I go I want his face to be the very last thing that I see. I want to go into the void with only the thought of him to go with me.

                He presses a kiss to my mouth as I put my quivering arms around my neck and he whispers, “Hold onto me. Precious little monster.”

                Love is too small a word. I don’t understand it. Worship. That is a word I understand. He moves inside me and I move against him and I _worship_.

                His larger body on top of my body. The taste of his mouth all there is on my tongue. His perfect hair tangled in my fingers. Feeling his arms on either side of my body as he braces himself. This is the only time I wish I was trapped in a body. So I can feel these things.

                So I can feel him.

                It hurts but I wouldn’t want to do this if it didn’t hurt. I wouldn’t understand it if it didn’t hurt. He knows that about me.

                “Do you trust me?” he whispers.

                Why would he ask me that? He’s the only one. The _only_ one.

                “Yes,” I say.

                He wraps his hand around my throat. He squeezes.

                I wheeze and it’s like someone put bright shining glass in my stomach. Every time he pulls back from me I try to breathe and can’t catch a full breath. Then he’s pushing back in and I still struggle for air.

                I’m choking. He’s choking me. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t ever want him to stop.

                “Stop,” I gasp.

                He stops. He’s not moving in me anymore, just propped on one hand and looking down at me. His hand is loose and I can breathe.

                I’m shaking. I’m shaking all over.

                If we keep going I don’t think I can go back. But that’s so stupid. There is no back. There is only him. What would I possibly have to go back to?

                “Credence,” he says, “do you trust me?”

                I’m swallowing and breathing and swallowing and breathing.      

                “Yes,” I say.

                “I trust you. You’re my good boy. Can you do this for me?”

                I’m his good boy. I worship him. I do whatever he wants me to do.

                I nod. I take his hand and I put it back around my throat.

                I cannot breathe.

                I watch him and he watches me. He moves up and down and that thing in my stomach is getting brighter and sharper. I think that if I don’t stop it then I will explode. I’m afraid of what will happen if we don’t stop.

                But I trust him.

                Things are getting blurry. Things look white around the edges. He’s saying, “That’s my good boy, that’s my good, brave monster,” and yes, that’s what I am. I’m his and I’m a monster. That’s all I need to be, that’s all I _want_ to be.

                My hands are moving but I don’t know what they’re doing. All I see is him. All I see are things going white. All I feel is this thing in me growing. It wants to become something. If I let it—

                If I let it—

                ‘Daddy,’ I mouth, and I explode.

                I am nothing. I am bright white and bright dark. I am a million pieces and nothing can put me back together again.

                I am a million pieces.

                But all of those pieces still belong to him.


End file.
